


Kintsugi

by infiniteOddity, RanebowStitches



Category: House of Wax (2005), The Boy (2016 Bell)
Genre: American Sign Language, Bo Being Bo, Brahms being a mouse, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends, Fluff, Found Family, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Lester being an angel, M/M, Mute Vincent, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, Vincent being cute, slashers, use of sedatives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-15 00:07:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28804032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infiniteOddity/pseuds/infiniteOddity, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RanebowStitches/pseuds/RanebowStitches
Summary: Taken away from his home after Greta escapes, Brahms finds himself lost in a strange town in Lousiana. Searching for help to get back home, he falls into the laps of The Sinclair brothers. Finding a kindred spirit in Vincent, Brahms thinks he may have found a new home, but when officials come poking around Ambrose asking questions about Brahms, will his new friends protect him or sell him out?
Relationships: Brahms Heelshire/Vincent Sinclair, Vincent Sinclair/Brahms Heelshire
Comments: 7
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there~
> 
> We were thoroughly disappointed by the lack of Vincent / Brahms material so we took matters into our own hands and wrote our own! We hope other people enjoy this ship as much as we do because we cry about it a lot (they just fit so WELL together)~
> 
> Enjoy!

They came for him in the night. 

All he had wanted was to mourn, to be alone, but they came for him like he was something that had to be hunted and trapped.

Skittering through his house like the rats he detested, there were so many. Too many. He fought, tooth and nail, but the pinch of a syringe kissed his arm, and he fell into darkness.

They took his mask. They took his doll. They took his home.

He did not know where they were taking him.

...

There were moments, one after the other. 

He had fought and he had wailed; he had made more noise than he had in years, so they sedated him. He didn't know what was worse, the time lost to unconsciousness and haze or the bits where he was awake, but trapped. 

They wouldn't let him move. His hands and feet were cuffed together and his jaw was locked with a mask that _wasn't his_. 

People stared at him like he was an animal in a zoo. White coats with faces hidden behind masks. Brown coats with shiny badges.

Brahms suddenly knew how his parents and Greta and all of the other nannies must have felt having his eyes on them. It’s a distinctive feeling, being watched. Being picked apart and flayed open without even being touched.

...

"Pull over here."

"What? It's the middle of nowhere. I swear if you're losing it, too, I will dope you up and shove you back with the loon in the trunk."

"Don't be an asshole. I gotta take a leak and this is the middle of nowhere, right? Not a single place to stop for miles so let me piss unless you wanna watch me aim in a bottle."

"Oh, sick. Fuck no. Get out of here."

The vehicle suddenly jerking to the shoulder pulls Brahms back into reality. His whole body shifts to the side, but with his hands bound he has no way of catching himself. He simply tips over, laying there and listening. 

The door opens, but he never hears it shut. Instead, he hears his captors shouting back and forth. 

"Just make it quick, the doll guy creeps me out, and we've got to dope him up again soon."

"Why don't you just do it now while I'm taking care of business? Unless you're planning on watching of course. Could have told me earlier, though."

"You fucking wish. The way you talk about your house, though, it'd be better for you anyway."

"Yeah. Yeah. Go put Pinocchio to sleep, and maybe I'll let you have a peek."

The sound of the other door opening and the crunch of dry dirt along the side of the van has Brahms going tense and struggling to sit up once again. He won't face these men with indignity, even if he's slightly red-faced with exertion as the door swings open to reveal the blinding sun. 

When he turns to look at him, the guard standing there stumbles back a bit. 

"Shit! You're up? Damn. You're just gonna tear through our stock of tranqs, ain't ya? You were eating your Wheaties all this time, huh, kid?"

Utter nonsense. Nothing his captors said made any sense. Half of it was words that made Brahms' head spin and he was sure they were just making sounds to entertain themselves. He saw a syringe pulled from the bag slung across this man's chest, though, and he knew that meant more hazy sleep that he was sick of. 

He flinches away, almost cowering from the pinch of the needle. 

"Nice and easy, big guy, there we go."

Just as the needle is pulled from his arm, another vehicle comes whirring past kicking up a cloud of dust with its horn blasting and the man with the syringe stumbles back coughing and slams the door shut.

"I don't like that shit at all. Hurry your ass up and let's get out of here. I don't want to meet any of the locals."

...

"You're serious about sleeping here? Are you insane?"

"We've been on the road for hours. I'm beat, okay, and you're not looking any better than me. Just a quick catnap, alright? Then we'll be out of terror town and on our way back to civilization."

"Fuck. I hope so. Can't believe that fucking shortcut was blocked off. Could have saved us so much time, now we're hours behind. Fuck."

"Like I said, a quick nap. No worries."

...

Even drugged and exhausted, Brahms finds it hard to nap, though his captors seem to have no trouble at all.

The back of the van is too sterile and metallic to offer any comfort, so he is left to lay across the metal bench and wait for the vehicle to roll again.

He hears the crunch and stop of approaching tires. Hears a door open and softly shut. With his face pressed to the metal, he can feel the movement of something under the van being _yanked_. Then all of the previous sounds in reverse.

Then nothing but perhaps the faint scent of gasoline.

...

“We’re out of gas.”

“Out? How? We just fueled up in Baton Rouge! There’s no way we’ve used an entire tank by now.”

“Well, then you look at the gauge and tell me what it means when the little lever is on E, smart guy.”

“Fuck you. It just doesn’t make sense.”

As the transport van rolls to a sputtering stop, Brahms can hear one of the men up front slamming his door as he gets out. The crunch of gravel beneath his shoes echoes as he walks along the side of the van that Brahms is chained to. He breathes deeply, mind foggy from whatever they keep injecting him with, and almost dozes off when the door slams again.

“The fuel line has been ripped out!”

“What? How?”

“I don’t fucking know! We must have run over a stick or something and it caught.”

"Really? A stick?”

“You got any better ideas?”

“...”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Well, what the fuck do we do now?”

...

He can hear his captors moving around, bickering and swearing to themselves, but most importantly more focused on the vehicle and not on him. The haze of sedatives has lifted from him and he can finally feel his strength returning. A childish giggle bubbles up from his throat and echoes off the metal walls. 

"Won't you play with me?" He throws his voice, so used to having his doll to catch it, but instead it echoes along with his laugh. 

There is a piece of him missing and now it's time to get it back.

...

Hands rendered useless for so many days ache with the pressure needed to snap a neck, but he does it. Chest heaving, Brahms stands over the bodies of his captors. 

He steps over them. They're nothing to him now. There is only one thing on his mind now that he is free and that is getting the other piece of him back.

Brahms climbs into the front of the van, digging through bags until he finds his doll and the mask that has served as his face for so long. Once he has his mask settled over his face, Brahms drags in a calming breath, his nerves settling now that his scars are covered. 

He climbs back out of the van, his doll cradled in his arms, but as soon as his feet hit the ground all of the calm leaves him. He actually has a chance to look around and… he has no idea where he is. This looks nothing like his home and the overwhelming sense of being _lost_ washes over him.

Brahms feels like he's drowning where he stands. There's nothing around him, nothing to give him any clues. He just wants to be _home_ again. To have the things he knows and to be safe. The ache of tears wells up in his chest, but he stamps them down.

No. No time for that.

All he can do is hold his doll closer, put one foot in front of the other, and start walking.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asking for help is easy. Getting helped is the hard part.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here come some Sinclair’s to the... rescue?
> 
> Enjoy!

The man sitting next to Lester is the last thing he had expected. He'd simply thought it was part of their trap when he saw someone walking down the side of the road, heading right where they needed him to. The plain clothes of a prisoner were a surprise, but not nearly as much of a surprise as the cracked, expressionless mask that turned to face him when he had stopped. 

For a moment, he was convinced that it was Vincent; that something had happened and his brother was left on foot, but no, he knew his brother too well. This was someone else. Someone eerily similar.

"You need a ride, buddy?"

The slow nod was jarringly familiar as Lester reached across the bench seat to fling the passenger door open. 

Watching this strange man climb into his truck was weird, his movements were off, like he was trying to make himself smaller, and as soon as he was sitting on the worn bench he kept to himself against the door. 

Lester peeks over to introduce himself and is even more surprised when he sees a broken doll sitting in this strange man's lap. "Ah, I'm Lester, in case you had any wonder and, ah, just who might you and this little fella be?" 

He keeps his tone chipper, he's not scared of this guy, more curious than anything else. 

A moment passes before the man very gently turns the porcelain doll’s face towards Lester, or what was left of it anyway. It looks like it took a nasty spill and busted half of its head completely off. In a very soft, child-like voice, the man says, “Brahms.” He never makes actual eye contact with Lester, still staring out the window with a sad look in his eyes. It’s the softest noise he’s made in days.

“Brahms, eh? That’s a new one,” Lester says, eyes flicking from the doll to the man to the road. “Never met a Brahms before.”

Brahms doesn’t have an answer, but his doll watches Lester with it’s one good eye. 

Lester licks his lips and hums softly, letting the silence wash over them for a minute more before looking to Brahms again. “So, where were you headed then, Brahms?”

It’s another long moment before a very soft answer is heard.

“Home.”

"Home, huh? I dunno if I can help you there, I mostly keep the place clean of pests and roadkill and whatnot," Lester jerks his thumb to the back of his truck streaked with blood and viscera that he just can't seem to get clean, "but Bo might be able to help ya. He runs the garage in town. He's our plan guy we always say and, at the very least, he can let you use the phone; maybe help ya get a ride back to where ya need, ya know?"

The doll nods, but not the man, and really that's all the confirmation that Lester needs. He feels a little bad lying like this, but Bo really is the one who knows what to do. He'll take care of this and, maybe, he'll go a little easy on this one, too. He seems nice enough. 

…

“Alrighty, well here ya are. Just take the main street there all the way up, and you’ll see the garage on yer right, clear as day,” Lester says as he points out Brahm’s window towards the small town waiting beyond. He gets a gentle nod from the doll and a soft thank you before his passenger is hoping awkwardly out of his truck. 

Lester watches Brahms slowly begin his journey into town before he calls up Bo.

“Go for Bo.”

“Yeh, it’s me. I’m sending one to the garage, but, ah… watch out. He’s a little off.”

“Off? Like how? Dangerous?”

“No, I don’t think so. You’ll know what I mean when ya see ‘im. He reminds me of Vincent.”

“Vincent? Great, that’s what we need. Two freaks.”

“Aw, be nice now…”

…

Exposed.

That’s how he feels walking along the empty street. Exposed.

Brahms supposes he might find this all exciting if it wasn’t also terrifying. His anxiety is heightened to the max, and all he wants is four walls and a roof over his head. The world outside is too big. Too bright. He’s glad he found his mask and doll in the front of the van though. Without them… he wonders if he would have joined the bodies of the guards. Unable to go on without his security blankets. They are the only comforts he has in this strange new place, so he clings to them with a white knuckled grip.

He takes in his surroundings with curious but wary eyes. The last time he saw other buildings besides his own home he was much much younger, and even then, the memories are fuzzy. He knows what things are from his stories and lessons, but seeing them for real is a whole new experience.

Shops. A theatre. A bowling alley.

But no people. 

Even Brahms knows that that is _odd_.

Movement out of the corner of his eye startles him and Brahms just barely catches sight of a curtain closing. He'd seen piercing eyes and a stern face, but that's all he really needed. 

At least there seems to be someone in this town.

Those eyes, though… a fuzzy memory comes back of playing in the garden. His mother watching him through the curtains just like that, her face pinched as he did his best not to dirty his clothes.

Then he remembers the letter. 

His mother is gone now. Father too. They had left him Greta. He was supposed to have someone to care for and to care for him, but they're all gone. He's left with no one in a weird place. All he has is the doll he loves, and that they loved.

He sighs and moves on.

The garage is true to where Lester had pointed him, the large GAS sign atop the pump roof helping it stand out. Brahms doesn’t see anyone, but he thinks he can hear music floating from somewhere. He pokes around at the pumps, wiping dirt and dust off their buttons with his fingers, another odd observation, before making his way to the door.

It’s unlocked, so he shuffles inside, feeling instantly better just being inside a building instead of outside. Even if this building smells of old rubber and oil. He looks around curiously, poking and prodding things as he goes, showing his doll all the things he knows and things he doesn’t. Tires he knows. Fan belts he doesn’t.

Where’s the person who’s supposed to help him?

Brahms hopes someone can help him. He doesn’t know where he is, but he knows his home address. Surely that’s all they would need to get him back? He hopes he’s not too far away. He hopes his home hasn’t been taken over by the people in the coats. He’ll kill them all if he has to in order to reclaim his home.

He hopes. He hopes.

...

Bo will never fucking admit it, but he about damn near jumps out of his skin when he comes up from his workshop and sees what looks like one of Vincent's creations walking around the place. He should be used to it - the same could be said about Vincent himself - but Vincent is his other half; every movement and tick is as familiar to him as his own. 

This is off, though. Even if this is a person, his movements are damn weird, like he's still figuring out how his joints work. Everything about him is off.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

This is Lester's weird one, isn't it? 

Bo adjusts his hat and stands up straighter, putting weight into his steps so his boots make noise on the concrete. 

"Hey there, pal. Welcome to my shop, what can I do for ya?"

Bo plasters on a huge grin as he gets closer, putting on his friendly southern boy air. Doesn't stop the damn chill that goes through his spine when the stranger turns and Bo can fully see the cracked mask and broken doll cradled in his arms. 

God, _they_ were supposed to be the ones haunting this area, not Goodwill's nicknack section.

"Home? Help?" the man asks, tilting his head like a lost dog.

That _voice._ Why the fuck does he sound like that? Victorian street urchins weren't really a common sight in Ambrose. 

"Shit, bud, sounds like you're a damn long way from home."

The man’s hold on his doll tightens as Bo’s words seem to sink in, and he curls in tighter around himself. “Long way?” he asks, eyebrows cinching behind his mask, confusion and fear swimming in his gaze.

Bo cocks his head and clicks his tongue softly. “Ya, man. You’re in Ambrose, Louisiana. Does that sound familiar at all?” The man shakes his head, and Bo can see the shine of tears in his eyes. _Damn._

Bo almost feels bad for making this guy look like that. He kinda wishes he could help him, but fuck, that definitely sounds like more work than it would be worth. If he's from so far outta town that he doesn't know what Louisiana is, then at least there won't be nobody coming around to snoop for him. 

He'll be just another quiet part of Vincent's display.

"Shit. Sorry you're not in Kansas anymore, bud.”

The man cocks his head again and seems to squint in confusion at Bo before a soft giggle of realization comes over him. _Kansas. Wizard of Oz. He knows that story._ It’s gone in a flash as he sulks again and looks around. “I want to go home…” he murmurs, holding his doll so hard Bo is afraid he might squeeze it in half.

"I know there's no place like home, but clicking your heels together ain't gonna work here." Bo takes his hat off and runs his fingers through his hair, looking sheepish and apologetic. "Listen, I do wanna help you. Come on. I'll show you around and you can tell me a little bit about yourself and that'll help figure out who I gotta call, ya know?"

Bo's smile is wide as he puts his hat back on and gestures for this doll guy to follow him. He'll take him up to Vincent and let his brother handle this after he makes sure no one's gonna come looking for this guy.

When the eerie man is finally standing at his side, though, Bo almost regrets the invitation. Up close and personal, this guy is a beast. Sturdy as a support beam and with just enough inches on him to crane his neck, Bo wonders if this guy is going to be more trouble than he's worth. Can't fucking wait to get rid of him. It's been years since he's been made to feel small and just that little extra rubs Bo the wrong way. 

Maybe he'll hint to Vin about hiding him away. A nice basement display of The Phantom of the Opera or something.

“My name’s Bo, by the way,” Bo says as he starts leading the way out from his shop. He’d hold his hand out for a handshake but isn’t sure the guy would let go of his doll anyway.

“I’m Brahms,” comes the soft, tired reply. The doll head turns to look at Bo and it makes a shiver run up his spine. _What the fuck?_

“Brahms? You _must_ be from far away. Ain’t heard a name like that before. Bet it’s all the rage wherever you’re from, huh?” He shoves his hands in his pockets nonchalantly, running his finger over the edge of his pocket knife.

There’s a beat of silence before Brahms says, “England.”

"England? Fucking hell," Bo barks out a laugh, loud like a gunshot. "And you ended up god-knows-where State side? Damn, man, you've got some luck on you."

Brahms flinches softly and curls his shoulders in closer together. He sighs behind his mask, a sound Bo is familiar with. “Bad luck,” Brahms says. 

"Some shit awful luck, man." Bo shakes his head in disbelief. This poor chump really did have the worst luck and little did he know it was just gonna get worse. "Don't think about it too much, though, you'll be away from this all soon enough. The house is just up the way and you can look around the wax museum while I make some calls. It's got what most would call a rich history. Lots to take your mind away."

Brahms seems to perk up at that, relaxing slightly and looking around as they walk. The leaves are changing colors on the trees, and a crisp early autumn breeze makes him shiver.

Bo shows the way inside the museum with a flourish of his hand, and if the look in Brahms’ eye is any indicator, Bo can tell he’s immediately interested. “Alright, bud. You hang tight here. I’ll be back in two shakes, okay?” He gets a nod before heading back out, seeing the glint of something metal on Brahms’ wrist as he waves goodbye. 

…

When Bo gets to the house, he does make a call, but not to whoever Brahms thinks could help. Fuck. He doesn't even know what would be the first step to getting the guy back to fucking _England_ would be. Bo dials and waits, knowing it always takes a few rings until he hears the click of picking up.

"Hey, Vin." He waits for the soft sounds of curious breathing to filter in from the other end of the phone line. "I just dropped someone off for you. I think you'll like this one, lots of quirks to pull inspiration from and all that. Just… be careful."

Bo kicks his feet up on the desk in his office and lights up a cigarette. Vincent and Lester don't like him smoking in the house, but as far as Bo sees it, he deserves this one as a reward. He did a damn fine job of playing nice if you ask him _and_ there was no fuss kicked up. A successful operation. 

He’s down to the filter when his phone rings. _Lester again? Huh_. “Go for Bo.”

“Yeah, you know that van we ripped the fuel line outta?”

“Sure do. You sendin’ the guys to town? I just got that doll guy dropped off to Vincent.”

“Well, ah… see I would be, but…”

“But?”

“They’re dead already. Just scattered out here on the ground next to the van.”

“What the fuck? You don’t think Vincent…?”

“Nah, he’d have taken the bodies back, ya know? And this don’t look like his work anyway.”

Bo hums and rubs at his face, reaching for another cigarette. “Well, bring ‘em up anyway, I guess.”

“Sure, sure… but, ah, also, they wasn’t cartin’ goods in their van like we guessed. It looks like they had a single passenger and a _lot_ of tranquilizers.”

Bo is quiet for a moment, inhaling the lady of his nicotine deep into his lungs as he lets those words sink in.

 _Fuck_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brahms explores the museum and meets the last Sinclair brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We get to meet Vincent in this chapter!
> 
> Hope y’all are enjoying! Thanks for reading 💜

The museum is covered in a thick layer of dust, but Brahms examines the pieces like they’re sparkling jewels. He holds his doll up to each wax person so that he can see as well, marveling at how realistic they are. Whoever made them is certainly a very talented artist. 

He walks through the main room slowly, taking in every corner of the place. _Everything_ is wax. _Amazing_.

He knows his manners, knows he should keep his hands to himself, but it's so tempting. He remembers being brought to the art museum when he was young, how he was told to stay behind the lines and that masterpieces were made to be viewed, but _never touched_. He had kept his hands firmly in his pockets that whole trip, the fear of being dragged out by his ear and the punishment he would face at home keeping him on his best behavior.

His doll's hand reaches out where his own won't. It's so close to touching the perfectly smooth face of a woman dipped in a dance, but he snatches it back before porcelain can meet wax. "No touching. You know your manners," he scolds. The giggle that leaves him is a surprise, a little moment of playfulness making him smile under his mask.

Heading around to the front desk, Brahms studies the newspaper clippings on the wall for a moment before moving on. _This place is famous… or was? What happened to Trudy and her family? Hm. Interesting._ He wonders what could have occurred to allow such a thick layer of dust to cover the town.

Finding a wax piano as he walks off into the next area, this he _does_ touch after much internal debate. Just _one_ key. Just to see if it works. He grins behind his mask as the sound of the sharp note echoes out around him. _Wow!_

It's a beautiful sound and he wishes he had learned to play; that he could fill this amazing place with music fitting for it's wonder. Instead, he's left to spin in place, following the way the note bounces off of the walls around him. Sneaking it's way into corners he hasn't seen yet.

...

After his call with Bo, Vincent readies his workshop, making sure that everything is in perfect order for his next muse. His carving tools are as clean as they will ever be and the furnaces are freshly fueled and ready to roar as hotly as he needs them to. Once again he is thankful for his need to be meticulous. Today's project had been to clear the sprayer's lines of wax, and he can almost hear it's call for his next creation.

This one, though, has his stomach tight with anticipation. He has been waiting for the usual heavy footfalls and the sounds of his previous masterpieces being moved around; of everything being touched, but so far not a sound has come from upstairs.

Intriguing.

Bo did say something about this new muse being _quirky._ Perhaps he should go and check on them…

Making his way up from his studio, Vincent keeps his steps light. His candles cast his shadow like a silent friend against the walls as he ascends, until finally he’s outside the wax house. Blinking against the sun, Vincent closes the hidden door behind him and sneaks his way to the kitchen window.

The sound of the piano rings out. _Oh!_ _Perfect._ They always seem to touch that. Peering inside the window, Vincent waits and watches until finally he sees the form of a man slowly making his way into the kitchen.

A man and… a doll? A mask? Vincent cocks his head. _Quirky indeed._

He is as still as one of his figures as he watches this stranger wander around the kitchen. Vincent can't see behind his mask, but years of catching reflections of himself has told him what to look for. This stranger seems _awed._ Most who walk through his house mock his creations or find them strange, but this man simply seems curious.

His gaze is darting all around, taking in every detail, but there is no telltale deer-in-the-headlights look that would signal that he has spotted Vincent yet, all he does is look.

When the stranger gets to the maid and sees her damaged face, he doesn't laugh or recoil in fear, his body almost deflates like he's _sad_ and he holds his doll tighter to himself, brushing his fingers over where Vincent can now see it is also missing half of its face.

If this man looks so heartbroken over _Vincent's_ work being damaged, Vincent can only imagine the anguish he must have felt when something so personal to him was broken. 

It's… odd… Vincent wants to reach out to him, wants to promise that he can fix the doll and the maid, he'll repair anything if it would mean lifting that great sadness from this muse's shoulders.

The crunch of tires on gravel turns his attention away from the window and to the road. When he focuses, he sees Lester stopped, something peeking out of the bed of his truck.

“Hey, Vin!” Lester yells, waving out the window at him. Vincent sighs but gives a small wave back, ducking down below the window. _Can he be any louder?_ “You seen, Bo? I got somethin’ to show him, and he wasn’t at the shop.”

Vincent gives a shrug before steepling his fingers together then moving them apart and bringing his hands straight down. _At the house?_

“Ah, yeh. I’ll try there next! Thanks!” Lester waves again before driving off, his truck rattling up the road towards the house. Vincent watches him go for a second longer before turning back to his window and…

Oh.

His muse is gone.

_Hm_.

...

A set of stairs had caught Brahms' eye when he first walked in and, like the current, he's drawn to them now. He has always been too curious and now that curiosity has him stepping over the chain barring his way and dragging his hand along a rail made of wax. A childish giggle rises from his chest, the delight of misbehaving sending a thrill up his spine. Oh, he would be in so much trouble if his parents knew. 

The stairs lead up to a long hallway spanned with closed doors and Brahms' heart pounds with excitement. So many secrets to find.

He walks to the end of the hall, his footsteps quiet and delicate against the wax floors.

The first door Brahms opens swings in to reveal a bedroom - once again made entirely of wax. Brahms' breath hitches as he looks around. Incredible. He trails his fingers over the comforter, a mischievous smile working his lips under his mask. 

His head dips so he can conspire with his doll. "This will be our secret, promise?"

" _Promise_." The childish whisper stutters in his throat. He hasn't played this game in so long - given his smaller self his voice - and it's not nearly as flawless as it once was. His doll nods. _Promise_.

With the vow made, Brahms curls up on the bed, doll cradled tightly to his chest, and just lays there for a moment, taking in everything that has happened. 

...

Pushing open the front door, Vincent pokes his head in and quickly looks about. When he’s sure the coast is clear, he steps inside. No one in the kitchen or the front room. Has he gone upstairs? Not many people do that. Though the closed sign on the front door didn’t seem to stop people, the chain blocking the stairs usually did. Whether it’s morals or fear of a wax floor collapsing beneath them, Vincent rarely had to climb the staircase to find his muses.

Moving along the wall, he ascends, keeping an ear open for any noise. It’s strange how quiet this man is, though Vincent is just as silent behind his own mask. He understands, he supposes. Out of respect, Vincent thinks he will let this muse keep his mask when he becomes an art piece. He will work on his face quickly so as not to have it shown to the world for long.

It’s what Vincent would want for himself, so he’ll extend the kindness.

At the top of the stairs, Vincent eyes the hall of closed doors. _Where are you, muse?_

His hand reaches out for the door closest to him, turning the handle slowly and pushing it open on smooth hinges. He peers in. An empty study he knows every nook and cranny of stares back at him. No muse. Just the dust of years of disuse.

He backs out and closes the door. Vincent strains his ear and sweeps his eye up the hall, but still nothing leads him to his muse. He pads along the floor, his heavy boots as quiet as he can make them, and tries one door after the other. With each empty room he is reminded of his heart pounding faster and faster in his chest, the thrill of the hunt creeping into his blood.

As he stands in front of the last door, he slips one of his knives out from the sheath at his waist and takes a deep breath. There’s no noise coming from within, but there’s nowhere else for the man to have gone. Gripping the handle of his knife harder, Vincent reaches for the door knob. It’s cool in his hand as he turns it slowly.

The sight that befalls him almost makes him drop his knife.

There, curled up on the bed like a child laid down for a nap, is his muse. He has just a moment to capture the sight before him in his memory before the other man is disturbed from his rest.

While he didn't drop his knife, he did dig it into the door: the sound giving away his presence.

His muse sits up with languid movements, there is no fear to his posture, only an interest betrayed by the way his eyes trace up Vincent's form and the tilt of his head when his gaze lands on Vincent's face.

Vincent tilts his head just the same.

A soft, “Hello,” comes from the man, though it is the doll in his lap that waves. Oh, Vincent can’t help but wave back, wiggling his fingers slightly. This is not at all what he was expecting.

Brahms felt caught when he saw this stranger looming in the doorway, but the wave eases his nerves. When he sees his face, a mask just like his own, he wonders if the stranger plays the same games that he does.

“I’m Brahms,” he says softly, his doll’s head tilting. “We’re trying to get home.” He shifts on the wax bed, shoulders curling in on himself again. Trying is the operative word. He doesn’t know how well he’s succeeding, but the more people he asks, the more likely he’ll be helped. Right?

Vincent's eyes follow the doll's movements, realizing how quickly they pull attention away from the man controlling them. Just as he would rather not be seen, this man has a clever way to hide in plain sight. 

Making a decision, Vincent takes a step back and lifts his arm in a "follow me" motion. He turns to leave the room, hoping that his muse is bright enough to understand. 

He seems to be as he gives a curious, "Oh?" and slides away from the wax sheets, padding silently to follow Vincent out the door. 

As Brahms steps closer to follow, Vincent takes a moment to look up and take in as many of Brahms' features as he can. He pauses and does a double take, realizing that he has to crane his neck just a little to look Brahms in the face. That's a surprising first.

As they walk down the hall and descend the stairs, Brahms follows like a shadow. It’s surprising to Vincent that someone else can be as quiet on their feet as he can. If he didn’t keep looking back, he’d almost forget Brahms was even there.

Stepping over the chain at the bottom of the stairs, Vincent motions again for Brahms to keep following as he leads him back to the kitchen. As they pass by one of his paintings hung on the wall, Vincent’s signature catches his eye. He stops suddenly, earning a little gasp of surprise from Brahms who almost runs into him.

Turning to look at Brahms, Vincent thinks it’s only polite to tell him his name since Brahms told him his. Vincent taps his name signed in oil paint and then points to himself.

Brahms looks between the two and cocks his head.

Vincent does it again, drawing a circle around his name and then pressing that finger to his chest. _I’m Vincent_ , he tries to silently get across.

Brahms squints at the name for a moment before saying, “Vincent?” in his soft voice.

Vincent nods encouragingly and points to himself again. _Yes!_

There’s a beat of silence before Brahms’ eyes light up and Vincent can only imagine the smile behind the mask. “Vincent!” he says delightedly, pointing to Vincent with a giggle. _Ah, he gets it._ “Vincent. Vincent. Vincent.”

Vincent can’t help but be amused at Brahms repeating his name like he’s trying to memorize it, or perhaps likes the feel of it on his tongue. Why is that so endearing?

Suddenly, Brahms looks to the painting again and gasps softly. “Did you paint this?” he asks, curiosity and awe shining in his eyes.

Vincent nods and picks up one of the little mermaid sculptures on the shelf nearby, flipping it over to show Brahms his signature there too.

“You made this…” Brahms breathes in wonder, looking down to Vincent’s wax face and studying him for a second before looking off as if to gaze at the whole house around them. “Made all this?”

The adoration has Vincent a little flustered. He ducks his head as he nods bashfully, letting his eyes follow the path that Brahms's had. Warm pride wells up inside him, the same kind he would get when he was under his mother's tutelage and he showed her the pieces made on his own.

"This is all so amazing," Brahms gasps, his voice losing some of its softness. "You're an incredibly talented artist."

Without thinking, Vincent’s hands fly into motion, spilling out the history of the museum and how proud his mother had been of her work and how it was his duty as her apprentice to complete it. Before it all comes grinding to a halt when he sees Brahms just looking at him, his head tilted. 

"I'm sorry. I don't understand. My lessons were on Latin." Brahms looks sheepish, curling in on himself again.

Vincent lets his whole body sag with defeat. Bo and Lester understand him and it's easy to forget that no one else does. He'll just have to ask Bo to tell the story later.

A stuttering breath catches in his throat as Vincent realizes that he's considering a _later_ ; that he's imagining an after with Brahms that involves Brahms leaving the basement.

Oh no.

Oh no. He's going to be in so much trouble. He _has_ to go through with this, though. There isn't… can't be a space for Brahms in their town. Not without him becoming an art piece. 

...

As they descend into Vincent's workshop, the candles lighting the place with a warm glow and illuminating the faces carved into the walls, Vincent feels Brahms's presence leave him. When he turns to look, Brahms is stopped on the stairs, his fingers tracing the ridge of a nose and the hollow of an eye. 

"This, too? This is amazing,” he's saying, but Vincent's focus is on his hand. On the glint of silver peeking out of his sleeve. 

Vincent carefully reaches out and takes Brahms's wrist, sliding his sleeve up to reveal half of a handcuff still locked there. If he feels Brahms shiver from the touch, he doesn’t comment.

Vincent cocks his head and traces the outline of a question mark in the air,hoping Brahms will at least understand that.

And he does, his expressive eyes trained on his wrist. 

"I think I was in trouble before I got here. They stole me from my home, but I got _away_." There's a wonder and conviction in Brahms's voice, like he's still trying to convince himself it's the truth. 

It's reminiscent of Bo when they were young. Reminds Vincent of late nights tucked close with his twin, the two of them rubbing the pain from Bo's scars and Bo swearing that this will be the last time. No more hurt for him.

Vincent’s thumb subconsciously runs over Brahms’ red wrist, pulling a gentle whimper from his throat. Something solidifies inside Vincent at the sound, the sight of the cuffs, and skin worn raw. He’s made a decision.

Taking Brahms’ hand, he tugs him along towards his workshop again. There are tools there that can cut through metal.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vincent makes a decision that Bo is not happy about, and Brahms is caught in the middle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sunday y’all~ We’ve seen a few of you reblogging the post for this fic on tumblr (thank you!!) and leaving some amazing tags on there! We are so happy you’re liking it so far!
> 
> Don’t be afraid to drop us a comment here too! We’d love to hear what you have to say!

Lester's standing in the back of his truck grinning down at Bo as he rolls the bodies out into the middle of the driveway. Each land with a thud in the dirt and gravel. "They're clean kills. Could have mistaken them for sleepin' if they weren't bent wrong, you know? Fuckin' cleaner than anything we've left behind at least."

He takes his hat off to rub at his hair and look at the layers of stains under his feet. First time he hauled bodies that weren't contributing to the mess.

Bo gives a low whistle and nudges one of the nurses or whatever with his work boot. "And you think our visitor is the one who got these guys? Why would he leave 'em so pretty then?"

"Fuck if I know. Found 'em on the same road I found him. Just makes sense, right?" Lester shrugs. "I never was good at saying I knew people, but if I had to guess - I'd say that he didn't really give a fuck about these guys."

"Killing them was just the fastest way to get what he wanted..." Bo muses. He starts to pace, his boots crunching on the gravel. "It fucking worked. He got out, but fuck… now that weirdo's running around our town. Who knows what he'll do."

"I mean, when I talked to him, I really did think he was just lost. What if he really does just want to get back to wherever he came from, Bo?"

"We're not in the business of helping people, Lester. We've got our own shit to worry about. We've got Vincent to worry over." Bo pauses mid stride and snaps his gaze to the direction of the wax house. " _Vincent_. Shit!"

He starts running in the direction of where he sent Brahms, hoping that he didn't just inadvertently kill his twin of all people.

"Bo!" Lester's calling his name, but he tunes it out. This is more important.

...

Brahms gazes around the new room in awe, an emotion he’s quickly becoming very well acquainted with. It’s _hot_ down here, lit up by candles and a large forge that seems to be heating a huge cauldron of what could only be wax. He wants to get closer, but the heat keeps him at bay. There’s machinery like nothing Brahms has ever seen in his books nor his own crafting, and he wonders if it’s all a part of the wax model making process. _Fascinating._

He stays near the edge of the room, hugging his doll, trying not to touch anything or be in the way, as he watches Vincent search through a set of cabinets and shelves. He’s not sure what he’s trying to find, but it seems important.

There is a triumphant sound that has Brahms reeling. _Not as quiet as he had thought_. Though his thoughts are sent spiraling in a different direction as Vincent comes stalking towards him brandishing a hack saw.

Brahms can't hold back the scared sound that leaves him when Vincent grabs him by the wrist and pulls him to a cleared off workbench.

“W-wait! What-?”

Gently, Vincent presses Brahms’ hand down onto the table and pushes his sleeve back. He draws his fingers down Brahms arm, tickling the dark hair that grows there, and takes hold of the handcuff, jerking it as far away from Brahms wrist as he can. Brahms whimpers and watches with fearful but curious eyes, squeezing his doll tightly against him.

It’s when he sees Vincent bring the saw up and over, fitting the teeth against the metal of the cuff, that he understands. _He’s helping_.

“Please… be careful,” Brahms says softly, making eye contact for a moment as Vincent looks up at him. There’s an understanding nod from Vincent before Brahms looks away, curling into his doll and holding his breath.

The grating sound of metal on metal echoes around the room as Brahms feels his wrist vibrate under the force of Vincent’s cuts. Strokes slow and long, he can tell Vincent is being careful and meticulous, even without looking at him. He waits for the pain of the saw slicing into his arm to come, but it never does.

There’s a soft twang of the blade in the air before the cuff hits the table.

Brahms opens his eyes and gasps, seeing his wrist free and unharmed but for some bruising from the cuff. He giggles and smiles at Vincent. Though it’s hidden, he thinks Vincent smiles back.

“This one now, please,” Brahms says, switching his doll around to press the next cuffed wrist to the table. Vincent’s shoulders bounce in a soft laugh, and he reaches out to push Brahms’ sleeve away and grab the next cuff. He poises the saw to cut just as he hears footsteps upstairs. 

Brahms is focused on Vincent, his heart pounding with anticipation as he waits for the next drag of the saw. It never comes and he cocks his head in confusion. 

"Vincent?" he asks softly, not liking how eerily still the other man has gone.

Vincent's focus is solely on the stairs that lead to the museum, like an animal with it's hackles raised. It makes Brahms go tense, clenching his free hand into a fist against the table.

He isn't as accustomed to the sounds of the workshop, can't hear the thud of boots descending the stairs until he hears a voice bark, "Vincent!"

It makes him jump and Brahms's head snaps towards the voice, feeling like he’s been caught being naughty when he registers the anger and fear in Bo's tone.

...

Bo is caught way off guard by the scene he steps into. He hits the bottom of the stairs, ready to defend his brother, only to see twin masked faces staring at him like nothing's wrong. Vincent with a saw in his hands. Brahms with his arm on the table. _What the fuck?_

His body turns to ice. Vincent is okay, but who fucking knows for how long. Who knows what will set the stranger in their home off. _Fuck_. What did he even do to end up being drugged and drove around in the back of a van?

He eyes Brahms up, not wanting him to turn on his brother. "I need to talk to you for a minute, Vin." His hands move along with his words without thinking about it. Until he goes quiet, but his fingers keep moving. _Danger. Found bodies at the van. Brahms was in the back of it._

Vincent cocks his head, his long hair falling over his shoulder. Bo almost wonders if he didn’t understand him from the long pause that emanates, but then Vincent is setting down his saw and letting go of Brahms with a quick pat to the back of his hand.

 _I’m helping him,_ Vincent signs back to Bo’s shocked expression. _He was in trouble_.

 _Trouble?_ _He_ is _trouble. Not a dog you can rescue. Get rid of him like the rest._ Bo's movements are pointed and forceful, not wanting any argument as anger makes his blood boil.

Vincent's head tilts the other way and his whole posture shifts, turning defensive. He steps around his workbench and in front of Brahms so he's the one Bo has to focus on.

 _No. I'm keeping this one. He… understands? Connects?_ Vincent's hands form a few more signs ( _Admires?),_ but he can't seem to find the words.

“Goddamnit…” Bo pinches the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath to try and keep his anger down. Try being the operative word. _Keeping?! Keeping?! What does that even mean? You want to bring a dangerous criminal into our home?_

_We’re dangerous criminals._

“I don’t care what we are!” Bo shouts, causing Brahms to give a squeak at the sudden noise. Bo watches as Brahms ducks farther behind Vincent, taking a hold of the back of Vincent’s shirt with a large, shakey hand.

Vincent tilts his head to look at Brahms for a moment before looking back to Bo. _He’s less a dog and more a lost child_ , he explains with slow hand motions.

 _What, you miss the days when Lester was little? You feeling nostalgic?_ _Can't believe your heart is bleeding now._ Bo throws his hands up and shakes his head. "Fucking hell, Vin. What's gotten into you? We talked about this and now you're the one not sticking to the plan!"

 _He doesn’t fit into the plan!_ Vincent’s movements are sharp, and he huffs a breath in annoyance under his mask. _I told you, he’s different. He’s not like the other muses. He_ sees _my artwork. He’s not scared. He doesn’t make jokes. He looks at my work with awe._

Brahms must make some quiet sound or maybe cling closer, because Vincent looks _pissed_. His fingers are sharp, twitching like they want his knives more than the words he needs. _Get out, Bo. Come back when you're ready to talk, but you are not welcome in the workshop wound up. If you won't talk, send Lester._

And Vincent turns his back on him, turns to the killer who had to be sedated in the back of a fucking van, and worries about _him_ more than his _own damn brother_.

“Fuck you, Vin! Putting this family in danger is all you’re doing,” Bo snaps out before turning and stomping away. Vincent can take care of himself for all he cares. _He wants to deal with the lunatic? Fine! He can deal with him all by himself. See if I care._

_God, I need a cigarette._

...

“Did… did I get you in trouble?” Brahms asks, hands trembling as he studies Vincent’s wax face. He hadn’t understood a lot of the argument, but he understood enough. Bo was _not_ happy Brahms was around.

But… why? Had he done something bad by accident? All he had asked Bo for was help getting home. Hm.

Vincent seems to sigh and shake his head no, taking Brahms’ hand with the cuff at the wrist. He squeezes gently and hopes it calms Brahms’ nerves. He hates not being about to use his words with Brahms. Perhaps some lessons are in order.

...

The walk back to the house should have been enough to clear his head, but Bo is still fuming when he bursts through the front door. "That son of a bitch!"

His commotion has Lester nearly flipping the chair he has tipped back at the kitchen table. The legs hit the floor hard and he's looking up at Bo in shock. "Just what the hell crawled into your britches?"

"That stupid … fucking … Brahms!" Bo rips his hat off and throws it to the ground, clenching his teeth and wanting to break something.

"Now what happened?"

"Go talk to your brother. See if you can get some sense outta him."

Lester blinks and scratches at his hair, his jaw slack in confusion. "Bo. He's your brother, too."

"He's not when I'm pissed off!" Bo comes stomping into the kitchen and kicks one of the chairs across the floor.

"Wait. What's going on?" Lester asks, hardly blinking an eye at Bo’s destruction. "Something about that Brahms guy? The one with the doll?"

"Yeah. Vincent is letting him fucking _live_. He's taking care of him. _Protecting_ him of all things. I can't fucking believe this shit!" Bo rips open the door to the fridge and pulls out a beer, downing half of it in one go.

"So… you want me to talk to him about something he's already made up his mind on?" Lester asks slowly, making sure he's got this right.

Bo growls, hating the fact that he knows what Lester is implying. Once Vincent makes a decision… that’s it. “Yes! Just… fucking go!” Bo huffs, downing another gulp of beer before stomping off to his room.

He needs some quiet to think through all this. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lester translates as Vincent and Brahms bond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone knows any good slasher artists who are open for commissions let us know! We’d like to get some art for this story eventually.
> 
> This chapter is really fun and sweet!  
> Don't forget to drop us a comment if you enjoyed~

Brahms rubs his sore wrists, glad to be free of his bindings, as he sits on Vincent’s soft bed, watching him move about the workshop. Brahms is very glad he’s found Vincent. He of course would rather be home, but something about the other masked man is calming. Perhaps it’s the silent solidarity of hiding one’s face from the world? Perhaps the souls of artists connect on a deeper level?

Whatever the case, Brahms would much rather be lost in the world here, with Vincent, than alone.

"Vincent," he calls out quietly, but his soft voice is lost to the roar of the furnaces. Brahms takes a breath and tries again, letting his real voice slip through. "Vincent!"

That does the trick as Vincent's head whips in his direction and the other man takes quick loping steps to stand over where he's curled up against the wall. Brahms wiggles his toes in the sheets, suddenly shy with Vincent's attention on him. "I wanted to thank you. I don't know what happened, but I know you defended me. No one's done that for me, and… it was really nice of you."

Vincent shrugs, his whole form shifting with the movement of his shoulders.

Brahms huffs loudly, not liking his gratitude being brushed off. "I mean it. It's something you should hear. I appreciate your help, all of it. Being here is already better than being taken who knows where."

He's met with a rolling eye and a wide hand reaching out to pat his hair, before Vincent is apparently done with him and heads back to the other side of the room. 

Brahms can’t help the flush he feels rise to his cheeks, glad that his mask is there to hide it.

...

It isn't long until more footsteps are heard in the museum and then making their way down the stairs. Vincent tenses up, readying for another fight with Bo, and he can see Brahms flinching down out of the corner of his eye.

As they approach the door, Vincent recognizes the softness and gentle hop in the steps. _Not Bo._ He looks over as the youngest Sinclair knocks and opens the door.

“Hiya, Vin,” Lester says, shooting Vincent a smile and Brahms a small wave. “Brahms.” He waves pointedly to the doll as well. “Brahms.”

Relaxing, Vincent sighs. _Did Bo send you?_ he asks.

Lester nods, placing his hands in his pockets and rolling his shoulders back. “Yeah, he did,” he admits. “Told me a very interesting story that had him spittin’ brimstone up there. Wanted me to come down and talk some sense into ya, but, uh…” He looks to Brahms again, sitting on Vincent’s bed and listening quietly. “I don’t think I’m changing your mind here.”

_No. Not this time. Bo will complain, but I'm set on this._ He looks over at Brahms, too, those intense eyes watching them and taking in the room. 

"That's what I thought. I'm glad you finally found yourself a friend, Vin," Lester grins and claps Vincent on the shoulder. "Old Bo's just jealous. He's used to you two being peas in a pod and… ya' know… change is scary for him and all that."

_I don't think I would call him a friend, but close enough for now._ It's a little embarrassing to hear Lester phrase it like that. Was he _lonely_? Vincent has had his brothers around him for so long, they understood him, but was he really just looking for approval from an outsider?

Leaning in closer and lowering his voice, Lester says, "After losing Ma, I'm sure he's scared of losing you, too. You're his other half, but you already know that."

Vincent's shoulders slump at the mention of their mother. There's not a day that goes by where he doesn't miss her; wishes she was here to guide them like she always had. _I'm not pushing him away. We'll always have each other, but Bo is my opposite and Brahms is… not the same. Similar? Close? To me?_

"You'll figure it out," Lester snickers. "I've got no say in any of this, but you know you're gonna have to talk to Bo again at some point. He'll come to terms with it, just needs some time to simmer down. I'd suggest you keep your new doll outta Bo's sight until he's had a breather. He always was accident prone."

Vincent sighs and nods. _Yeah._ He cocks his head and smiles at Lester who recognizes the gesture from the squint of Vincent’s eye through the mask and gives his shoulder a squeeze.

Lester glances to Brahms again and hums. “Now, uh… does Brahms here understand what you’ve decided on? Last I heard, he wanted to go home.”

Vincent freezes. Oh. Oh no. _I don't know. He got Bo's half of our talk. He knows we're not much help, but will you talk to him about the rest for me?_

“He can’t read hands, huh?” Lester clicks his tongue and nods. “Alright.”

Brahms watches as the brothers move closer to him, feeling giddy when Vincent sits next to him on the bed. The doll waves to him, and Vincent cocks his head back.

“So, ah, Brahms…” Lester starts, looking sheepish as he takes off his hat and rubs a hand through his short hair. “It turns out you’re a very, _very_ , long way from home. So much so, we’re not quite sure how to get you back.”

Brahms’ shoulders sink as he stares at Lester, an emptiness clawing in his chest. Tears fill his eyes, and he tugs his knees closer to him. _He can’t get home? Oh no. Oh no. Oh-_ He sniffs and looks over as Vincent rests a hand on his shoulder, a silent apology and source of comfort.

“Now, don’t worry too much, okay? We’re gonna look into it some more, okay?” Lester says, not sure how true the statement is, but he knows getting Brahms back to England is practically impossible for them anyway. They don’t have the money, and he doubts Brahms has a passport. “Until then, you can stay with us. That’s what the, uh, argument between Bo and Vincent was earlier, you see. Bo… isn't too keen on you staying, but Vincent wants you to.”

Brahms nods, feeling small and lost as his world crashes around him. “I don't know where else I could go. I want to go home. I'm sorry I can't." He sniffles and reaches over to curl his fingers in the hem of Vincent's sweater. "I didn't mean to be so much trouble. Bad things always happen to me, and I wish they wouldn't."

Vincent puts his hand over Brahms’ and shakes his head, wishing he could express himself fully. He wants to tell Brahms it’s all okay, that he’ll be taken care of, that he’s not trouble at all. Instead he turns to Lester, hands flying.

“Uh, uh… slow down, Vin. Okay…” Lester laughs softly, holding up his own hands in surrender. He comes and sits down on Brahms’ other side, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to be sorry, bud. It’s not your fault ending up here. Vincent wants you to know that you’re not any trouble, okay? Stick with him for now. He’ll take care of ya.”

Brahms sniffs again and looks to Vincent, feeling him squeeze his hand with his own, skin warm against his. “Thank you,” he says, voice thick with emotion. No one has ever helped him so freely before.

Vincent arcs his hand down from near his mouth to his chest as Brahms watches, confused but attentive.

“He says, ‘you’re welcome’,” Lester translates. “We’ll teach you to talk hands soon enough.”

"Thank you, Lester. I'd like that." He looks between them both, his chest tight. The distraction and the concept of _learning_ something has him eager, though. "I always did like my lessons, and it would be nice to be able to talk with you, Vincent."

Brahms gives the hand in his a shy squeeze. He has so many questions for Vincent, would love to learn so much from him and it seems he may have the time to learn a whole language just to get what he wants. 

He can feel Vincent moving next to him, but it's Lester's laugh that pulls him out of his daydream.

"Hm?"

"Vincent says that it would make things easier if the two of you could talk." Lester has this mischievous look on him. "I know I'm a great middle man and all, but I'm sure there's a thing or two Vin wants to tell ya all private like. You got him all interested, Brahms." Lester wheezes out another laugh that stutters into a choking cough when the hand holding Brahms's lashes out to shove Lester off the bed. "Come on, Vin. I'm just joshin'. A little tease to lighten the mood."

Brahms can’t help the giggle that rises from his throat, endeared at the way the brothers play. He used to play like that with others too. He hopes he can again some day. 

He looks to Vincent and then Lester, relaxing fully and letting his fingers trail over his doll’s leg. “Thank you again for helping me,” he says, blinking at Vincent with a head tilt. “I’m glad it was you who found me. You are very interesting yourself.”

Ducking his head away shyly, Vincent waves his hand to say, “It was nothing,” only to find it caught by one of Brahms’ again. His soft thumb trails over Vincent’s knuckles, scarred from being nicked by his carving tools and singed by hot wax. He looks down at Brahms’ hand holding his and relaxes, his shoulders falling.

Why does that feel so nice?

“Well, uh… shall I leave you two alone?” Lester says with a sly grin, dodging another hit from Vincent with a laugh. 

_Go!_ Vincent moves to shoo Lester off, but pauses and pulls his hands back in. _Will you come back with food? A sandwich?_

"Yeah. Yeah. Sinclair room service comin' atcha'. Jus' make sure you're decent when I get back." Lester tips his hat and saunters out of the room before Vincent can lash out at him again, snickering to himself the whole way up the stairs.

Wait until Bo hears about this. 

...

Brahms files away Lester's words to truly mull over once he has a chance to breathe. He didn't have siblings, so he's not sure if it's a normal brother thing, but there is so much teasing. The heat in his face is hidden by his mask, and Brahms is so thankful for that. He already feels like he has embarrassed himself so much around these brothers.

Lester brings him back a sandwich, which he is very thankful for, though it almost makes him laugh. _Peanut butter and jelly must be very popular in America._

He watches Lester leave again before looking at his food. His stomach growls and he reaches for his mask to move it up but there’s suddenly movement from Vincent at his side. He looks over and sees Vincent pointedly looking away from him. _Is he… giving me privacy?_

“Thank you,” Brahms says softly, watching Vincent nod and then stand, going back to his work desk. He glances once back at Brahms before looking away again. It makes something in Brahms belly, other than hunger, flutter to think that Vincent would be thoughtful enough to avoid seeing his face without him having to ask.

He supposes he’d show Vincent the same kindness.

Pushing his mask up just enough to free his mouth, Brahms digs into his sandwich, loving the combination of salty peanut butter and sweet jam. He can see now why Greta likes these so much. 

With food in his stomach and the cuffs off of his wrists, Brahms finally has a moment to feel safe. The workshop is warm like summer-sun soaked grass and Vincent feels like a protector even with his attention on his work.

Stomach full and his nerves calmed for now, Brahms is left with nothing to do but sate his curiosity. He sets his plate aside and pads over to Vincent's desk, coming up behind him to peer over his shoulder. 

"Vincent, what are you doing?" His words are soft and lacking the singsong tone he would usually add to them. He doesn't want to entice Vincent to play or pull his attention away, instead he is hoping to simply be allowed to see more beautiful art.

Brahms gets his wish. Vincent tenses for a moment before leaning back to show the block of wax in his hands that he sets aside in favor of tapping a drawing. It's something he has never seen before. Parts of a lion and an eagle and a stag all pulled together to create something visually shocking, but still appealing.

"Oh. I've never seen anything like that. Incredible."

Vincent hovers his fingers near his chin and pulls his hand down in front of him.

The meaning of it is lost on Brahms, but he does understand when Vincent snags the hem of the uniform he was put in between two fingers and shakes his head.

"I know," Brahms says. "They're not very comfortable either. I miss my soft sweaters."

Vincent is soon on his feet and tugging Brahms towards a rack of clothes shoved out of the way. It's packed to the brim and Vincent gestures widely to it, even taking Brahms's hand and leading it to some of the softer pieces. Thick sweaters won't do him any good in the sweltering Louisiana heat, but that doesn't mean he still can't be comfortable.

Vincent's palm is hot and rough against Brahms' hand. That feeling distracts him from even focusing on the clothes. Vincent is trying to do something nice for him and all he can think about is the splay of his hand against his. Brahms has never felt small before, but Vincent envelops him. It's… close to overwhelming.

“Th-thank you,” he gasps out a moment later when he realizes he’s gone longer than polite without saying anything. He tears his eyes from their hands to Vincent’s face, that of which is cocked curiously at him. Brahms swallows and looks back to the clothes.

There’s an array of types and colors, ladies’ and men’s, and the rack seems to be organized by size. Nothing seems to be fitting of Vincent’s style, or what Brahms can guess is Vincent’s style from the simple clothes he’s wearing now, and it has Brahms wondering why these clothes are here. Where did they come from?

Vincent let’s go of Brahms and steps back slightly, giving him room to look through and feel each article.

His fingers move nimbly over the clothes. He had always been picky about his clothes, latching onto a few pieces and only wearing those, everything else had always been too itchy or too tight. He misses his soft sweaters and worn-in trousers. 

With that longing, his fingers stop on a thin, but very soft flannel and an undershirt for it. Just feeling something soft reminds him of just how uncomfortable the hospital clothes are and it has him searching for a suitable pair of pants even more quickly. Too short, too big, sometimes _both_. All of his luck seems to have run out with his shirt. With a huff, he snatches a pair that are at least long enough for him along with a belt to keep them up.

That'll have to do.

**Author's Note:**

> Find us on tumblr at [Myshinyworld](https://myshinyworld.tumblr.com/) and [Ranebowstitches](https://ranebowstitches.tumblr.com/) ♡


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